


Three-For-One Drinks Night (or How Boring Baggins Found His Courage)

by trulyunruly



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Bilbo is Thorin the dancer's biggest fan, Clubbing, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Fluff with feelings, Friendship, Getting Together, In which the author confuses exotic dancing and stripping a lot, M/M, Rare Pairings, The angst is minimal though, also Dori is ofc the best dancer in the joint, and Bilbo has a lot of feelings, and everyone swears a lot, and strip clubs and nightclubs a lot, and the company ships it, is this even a question
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:47:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1568318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trulyunruly/pseuds/trulyunruly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was an iron-grey, wet Thursday evening, and Bilbo Baggins was going to a strip club. <i>Depressing</i>, he thought, <i>in an oddly suitable way</i>. He really did not intend to enjoy himself.</p><p>You know what they say about intentions.</p><p>(The moody dancer with the black hair may or may not have something to do with it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three-For-One Drinks Night (or How Boring Baggins Found His Courage)

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in my folder for a year (almost literally) and i just finished it tonight wHOOP. originally, i wrote it as a bit of fun for my friends but it grew into this monster and i thought, maybe, i'd put enough love and work into it that i could dare post it on ao3 ;) it's taken a few twists and turns but i'm pretty proud of this baby which, until about half-an-hour ago, was just called Stripper AU. they grow up so fast!
> 
> regarding merebo: he is a OC i first made up while writing a previous fic, Have At It. initially his was a throwaway name in a brief exposition, but said friends clocked onto it and the idea of merebo just...grew. a lot. and when this fic was just a little thing between friends, i threw merebo in there because his character seemed like a good catalyst for the action of the story. i'm slightly trepidatious about tossing him out there again - he isn't a huge part, but OCs are a grey area in fandom and i don't wanna alienate or annoy anyone with him i guess! so i just wanted to explain that :)
> 
> also, self-promo time! i am on tumblr (durinssons.tumblr.com) and basically if any of y'all wanna check it out/connect/chat, i am there pretty much all the time because. well. tumblr. :) anyways, on with the show! thanks for clicking on this huge dumb story btw, it means a lot. i hope you enjoy! :D x

It was an iron-grey, sodden sort of evening, and Bilbo was going to a strip club. _Depressing_ , he thought, _in an oddly suitable way_.

Although he wasn’t going so much as being dragged kicking and screaming by the scoundrel who dared style himself his friend. The concept of a wet Thursday evening spent slobbering after half-naked dancers was probably dreamt up by Merebo Proudfoot, let alone enthused about by him, and tonight he had decided that Boring Baggins needed some spice in his life.

“If I wanted spice,” Bilbo had retorted when Merebo had first suggested it, “I’d get an Indian or go to Chiquita’s, not a bar.”

“You are actually the most depressing person I know,” Merebo said, “Seriously. No joke. You should start wearing top hats and telling stories about boats. _Bilbo_.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes and glanced to Lobelia for help. Unfortunately, Lobelia was probably the last person in the world he should have expected support from.

“I’m game,” she had said with a shrug. Her sandy hair slid from her shoulder and she scraped it back, tugging the scrunchie from around her wrist to tie it up. “I’ve not gone out in ages, not since Gaffer’s leaving do. Though why Thursday, ‘Bo?”

“It’s that new place, Durin’s Bane,” Merebo said eagerly, “Only opened last month but Thursday is three-for-one drinks deal night—and it occurred to me that, if I brought two friends, it wouldn’t look like all the drinks were for me. They are though. You bitches buy your own.”

“ _Rude_.”

“We aren’t your only friends,” Bilbo pointed out, “Why not ask someone from work or…or your actor friends?”

“I don’t mix work and play, Bagsy,” said Merebo, “and my actor friends think the club’s too mainstream just cos it was privately funded or some shit. I don’t know. You guys are my bestest friends though, you know that.”

“That and you haven’t pissed us off yet,” Lobelia said, “God knows why.”

“Exactly!” Merebo beamed, “Plus this club is _brilliant_. Like, I-want-to-fly-it-to-Oslo-and-give-it-a-Nobel-prize brilliant. The music is current, the décor is tasteful—”

“I refuse to believe you went to a strip club and took notes of the décor, Merebo.”

“—and literally _every employee is hot_. I’m not even kidding. Even the fucking doorman has this smoulder shit going on, ugh. You guys will love it.”

“Hang on just a moment!” Bilbo exclaimed, “I never said I’d go. I don’t want to go! I have more to do with my life than, than…perv on some random—”

“Appreciating the human body,” Merebo interrupted indignantly, “in all forms of undress—and in all manner of positions—is not perverted. It’s healthy, especially when you’re a celibate stick-in-the-mud, Bilbo Baggins. When did you last even wank?”

Bilbo’s jaw dropped. Lobelia laughed so hard that she almost fell off her chair.

That was how Bilbo wound up accompanying his friends to Durin’s Bane at ten o’clock on a rainy Thursday night. It was on principle more than anything. Bilbo really did not intend to enjoy himself.

In the end, however, intentions do not mean much.

At first glance, Durin’s Bane looked no different from every other building on this London street. It was a three-storey bricked front sandwiched between identical fronts, only revealed for what it was by a modest, neon-red sign and a line of patrons strung up halfway down the pavement. Even Bilbo was taken aback.

“So popular so early?” he cried, staring at the queue. He was somewhat heartened to see that it was not comprised only of greasy, leering old men. A variety of men and women, young and older, in all kinds of outfits and accessories were milling about and the chatter was an excited buzz. Merebo’s smile was smug. Lobelia merely arched a brow.

“And how long are we gonna be out here for?” she asked dryly.

“As long as it takes me to work my charms,” Merebo said before he spun on his heel and—with all the brazen confidence of a man who once shagged his way through customs at Heathrow Airport—swaggered towards the front of the line. Exchanging nervous glances, Bilbo and Lobelia followed.

The doorman did indeed exude a certain brooding allure. He was tall, a head above all of them, and his brown eyes seemed to burn as he turned his gaze upon them. Merebo, however, was undeterred.

“Hello, Bard, my darling, my love,” he crooned and sidled closer. The corners of Bard’s mouth tugged up.

“Merebo, to what do we owe the pleasure?” he said. His voice was gravelly, pitched low like a secret, and Bilbo’s knees went a bit weak. Merebo stepped even closer to him.

“Bil— _Bilbo!_ ” Lobelia cried next to him, “Golly gosh, are you mooning over the doorman?”

“I bet he’s been hurt in the past and needs someone to heal him.”

“Oh my God. This is going to be a great night.”

* * *

 

Science would have the people believe that magic and wizardry did not exist in the world, for they are outside the realms of possibility. To this, Bilbo would say “nay”. The universe always finds a way and, for some reason, its gateway into this life was through Merebo Proudfoot, for how else could he actually convince as stoic and striking a professional bodyguard as Bard to allow them to enter the club in front of others—and without having to pay?

“We hooked up once in the coatroom. I give fucking _fantastic_ BJs.”

Magic may come in many shapes. Lobelia, who had been edging towards the coatroom, promptly veered away with a grimace.

Through the polished wooden door at the other end of the entrance was the bar and dance floor. The music was pounding, enough that it beat in Bilbo’s ears like a physical force, and he found his head nodding along of its own accord. Above the door, picked out in gold lettering, were the words _Ered Luin_.

“Looks Irish,” Lobelia commented as they passed, “What does it mean?”

Merebo’s reply was swallowed by the thumping of music. Beyond the door, _Ered Luin_ opened up. The walls of the room stretched far to either side and Bilbo had to crane his neck to make out the roof in the darkness. The opposite wall of the club seemed, though Bilbo could not see clearly, to have been painted as a nature scene; in flashes Bilbo perceived rolling hills and blue sky and one sharp peak of a mountain in the middle of the view. Multi-coloured lights flickered and swung over the writhing mass of dancers and the gaggle of people crowding by what Bilbo could only assume was the bar. His feet slipped over the reflective floor as they walked.

Led by Merebo and clutching Lobelia’s hand, Bilbo went to battle his way to the bar. It took a moment for the bartender to notice him but, when he did, he bounded over with a smile.

“Alright, lad, what can I get ya?”

Bilbo blinked, before ducking his head to try and catch the man’s eyes, hidden as they were by his low-slung trapper’s hat, “Uh, hello. Can I get a beer, a mojito, and a G&T please?”

“Of course you can,” the man grinned and turned to shout over his shoulder, “Oi, Bom, got a cocktail order! On your bike now! What kind of beer d’you fancy?”

“Carlberg’s,” Lobelia piped up and the bartender nodded to her. As he turned away to pull a green can and a bottle of tonic out of the fridge behind him, a younger man—more of a boy, as the bowl cut made him appear—scurried down the length of the bar with a tall glass clasped in one hand.

“Hey, Ori,” cried the bartender, “Bombur’s let you on cocktail duty already? You must have a gift!”

Ori, blushing, held the glass out to Merebo, “No. Some girls over there ordered _nine_ rum drinks so he asked me to run this down.”

“My kind of women!” the bartender declared with a laugh. He angled his body as if he were including Bilbo in the conversation and said, “You lot will have to keep an eye out in _Arkenstone_ , make sure there aren’t too many rabble-rousers enjoying our deals. That’s three-fifty, by the way.”

“What’s _Arkenstone_?” Bilbo asked as he handed over a five-pound note. The bartender’s eyebrows shot up under the rim of his hat. Ori flushed even redder.

“A newcomer, eh?” the bartender addressed Merebo, who nodded as he sipped his mojito, “Ah, me. Trust me, lad, you’ll like _Arkenstone_. It’s the…main attraction, if you will.”

 _Oh_. Both his friends began snickering on either side of him. Bilbo pursed his lips, before relaxing as Ori smiled sympathetically at him.

“It’s alright. I _work_ here and _I_ didn’t know _Arkenstone_ was the pole stage,” he confided. The bartender bellowed with laughter and clapped the boy on the back.

“Only cos Dori wouldn’t tell you!” he said and Ori went scarlet, “Dori’s his big brother and a right star he is—”

“ _Bofur!_ ” wailed Ori, “I’ll get Nori to kick you out!”

“Like he would,” Bofur said before taking pity on him, “Alright, jog on back to Bombur, then go out back and make sure Bifur and Gloin are holding up. You lads want anything else?”

“No thanks,” Bilbo said quickly and, clutching his gin and tonic glass, weaved back through the crowd. Merebo was crowing behind him but Bilbo could not summon up the will to be anything more than a bit baffled.

* * *

 

It took Bilbo less than an hour—if that—to change his stance on strip clubs and convert to the Word of Merebo forever.

Certainly, this change of heart took place after admission into Arkenstone (where Lobelia attempted to stare down the bald, tattooed fellow on the door and was saved only by Merebo bodily hauling her past screeching “RULE NUMBER ONE DON’T FUCK WITH THE GIANT-ASS BODYGUARD!”).

Initially, Bilbo believed it to be a standard, stereotypical, sleazy-movie stripper zone. The low orange lighting illuminated the audience at round tables, all fixated upon the stage that took up half the room. This was a slick-black platform, rectangular with several walkways branching off into the audience. At regular intervals, long, shimmering metal poles were installed. All were currently unoccupied. There was a hushed drone of voices as the eager spectators waited for the show to begin.

Lobelia was unimpressed. Merebo was unimpressed that Lobelia was unimpressed. Bilbo just sucked on his G&T anxiously.

“You haven’t even given it a chance!” huffed Merebo, sprawling on his chair in a parody of distress. They had managed to secure their own white-covered table, right under the stage. Bilbo trembled at the idea of accidently making eye-contact with…with…

Well, whatever he might see on that stage.

“It’s nowhere _near_ as nice as Grey Havens,” Lobelia said, “and so far, no hotties.”

“That doorman would’ve been up for it if you hadn’t asked him why he had a _vagina tattoo_!”

“It looked like a vagina!”

“IT’S A CELTIC SYMBOL, YOU _SWINE_.”

The lights dimmed and the drone dipped into a whispered anticipation. Lobelia, in the middle of describing just what monstrosities she planned to commit against Merebo’s overactive dick, only lowered her tone a notch.

“Lobelia,” Bilbo hissed. Lights all colours of the rainbow were beginning to swirl about the stage, reflecting like diamonds up onto the walls and over the table tops. Blue briefly swam across Lobelia’s agitated face. “Please don’t make a scene in front of the strippers.”

With an angry _tsk_ , Lobelia took a pull of her beer. The solid set of her jaw warned Bilbo that both he and Merebo would be receiving the silent treatment for at least five minutes. He was just about to prod her into forgiving them—even Lobelia was not immune to the Baggins Blue Eyes—when a white hand flattened itself against the table surface.

“I hope these men aren’t bothering you,” a voice said teasingly. All three of them followed the hand up an impossibly long arm, a bare, lily-white shoulder, to a narrow, smiling face. The woman arched a brow at Lobelia.

“We don’t want too much yelling in here,” she told them. For a long moment, Lobelia merely opened and closed her mouth like a stuck fish.

“Sorry!” she eventually squeaked and Bilbo almost choked on his straw. Lobelia… _cowed_?

“Don’t be sorry!” the woman said and her grin lit up again to full radiance. She swept a swath of red hair behind her shoulder, revealing a long neck and a sharp collarbone above the low cut of her dress. “I’m only the messenger. Besides, Dwalin has a stick up his ass on the best of days. I’m Tauriel.”

“Tauriel,” repeated Lobelia and then the spark leapt back into her eyes, “Pretty name for a frankly gorgeous woman. You work here, Tauriel?”

Tauriel laughed, “That’s the oldest line in the book! And the show’s about to start, so I can’t really stick around but…why don’t you let me divulge my secrets a little later?”

With an elegant flourish, Tauriel produced a pen out of nowhere and reached out. As she concentrated on jotting a row of numbers on the ridge of Lobelia’s hand, Merebo and Bilbo gazed on with wide eyes.

“I don’t know whether to be shocked or happy,” Merebo said slowly, “that she pulled before me.”

“Don’t say that to Lo’s face, for the love of God.”

With a last smile, Tauriel was gone and Lobelia was raising her bottle again to her lips.

“On second thoughts,” Lobelia said, “this club’s not that bad.”

“I never had you pegged for someone so easily swayed by a pretty girl,” Bilbo exclaimed.

“You wanna talk about pegging _now_ —”

“MEREBO, I SWEAR—”

“I’m not,” interrupted Lobelia, “But that was not a pretty girl, Bilbo Baggins, that was a fucking goddess and, if I have a shot, I’m gonna fucking take it, you feel me?”

“No, I don’t,” Bilbo said haughtily, “I have more integrity than that.”

(He did not.)

* * *

 

He was not what Bilbo expected, and yet everything he suddenly found himself wanting.

The audience’s hollering faded into static as the dancer took to the stage. Under thick brows he glowered out at the crowd before taking to his pole, the one just above Bilbo’s head. He was a fearsome creature, Bilbo thought—stocky, ungraceful, eyes narrowed as though in disdain. He took a careless hold of the pole and tossed an icy-blue glare into the audience.

Bilbo thought to turn to his friends, perhaps murmur a scoffing comment, but his eyes followed the dancer’s movement of their own accord and his tongue was stuck.

 _I must be very drunk right now_ , he decided, even though he had had only one drink and even a Baggins could hold their alcohol better than that. A more likely situation, though not one he would admit to aloud, was that he was entranced by the ripple of muscle as the dancer rolled his shoulders forward in preparation. The music began with a slow, heady bass beat.

The dancer wasted little time. One hand gripping the pole, he leaned his torso back and curled the fingers of his free hand around the hem of his vest. The audience must have screamed at that but Bilbo heard nothing. He was fixated as inch by inch of smooth skin and coarse hair was revealed, as the shirt was shucked and thrown into the crowd, leaving the dancer in only his tight trousers and a cocky smirk. His high black ponytail swung as he turned back to his pole and rocked his hips teasingly against it. The lights flashed white and Bilbo saw the flat plane of his stomach, the powerful lines of his thighs in the clinging leather, a glimpse of the crease that would trail into the V of his pelvis.

He was not elegant, as Bilbo had predicted. There was no romance or beauty to him. But _sex_ , Bilbo thought, sex he had in spades.

* * *

 

“Bilbo? _Bilbo_?”

“Gffanannn?”

“Oh good, he’s alive. I thought he was gonna gawk at the stage all night. Have you even heard anything I’ve said in the last ten minutes?”

“Of course he hasn’t, Lo. The moment that stripper turned up, the blood rushed so quickly to his dick that he’s probably had a stroke.”

“ _MEREBO._ ”

* * *

 

For the sake of Bilbo’s health, it was decided that the trio should make their way as soon as possible out of the pole stage. (“Decided”, of course, meant that Lobelia made up her mind, Bilbo agreed sheepishly, and Merebo had to be dragged out just as the show’s headline act, a squat but soft-faced gentleman named Dori, was showing off some surprising and decidedly gymnastic moves.)

When they left, the room was crowded, people milling about the stage with their eyes fixed on its performers. The door was now guarded by a scowling man with a hooked nose, who did not seem to hear when Lobelia asked him where her new friend Tauriel had vanished off to. Merebo brightened up to see that the dance floor—and more importantly, the bar—was no longer so busy and immediately made a beeline for Bofur the bartender. Bofur was now unoccupied and leaning against his bar, snapping a filthy washcloth at a young man on the other side of the counter.

“Get _out_ , you rapscallion,” he was huffing as Bilbo got within hearing distance, “Not _my_ fault if you didn’t bring money to a club. I don’t give handouts.”

“What, no employee discount?” asked the man, propping his elbows on the bar and peering up hopefully through his hair. He was wearing fingerless gloves, Bilbo noted, and smart black jeans, but he was definitely younger than he dressed; his dark curls framed a smooth face and round brown eyes.

“Kili Oakenshield, you’ve known me since you were a kid. Have you ever known me to give free alcohol to anyone?”

“I’m not anyone,” grinned Kili, and Bilbo swore he saw him bat his eyelashes, “I’m your favourite nephew ever and I’m asking you very, very nicely to _pretty please_ —?”

“I don’t need another nephew,” Bofur said, “I have two of ‘em. If anything, you’re the closest thing I have to a niece.”

“I’ll take it if it pays in rum.”

“It doesn’t. And now you’re holding up my _actual_ customers. At ease, gents!”

“Who are you calling ‘gent’?” Lobelia demanded, hoisting herself onto a seat. Bofur laughed and stood back to sweep into a bow.

“I apologize, my lady,” he declared, “for the vicious and undeserved offence I have bestowed upon ye—”

“That’s more like it,” Lobelia grinned, before turning to Merebo and Bilbo, “Why can’t _you_ be more like that?”

“Because I’m the king of the castle and you’re a dirty rascal,” said Merebo, “and it’s your round.”

“And what have _you_ paid for tonight, Proudfoot? Bilbo paid for the last round, and you didn’t even need to pay admission because you blew that Bard guy one time.”

Behind Lobelia’s head, Kili’s eyebrows were rising steadily. Bilbo could feel himself turning pink and stepped in between his friends quickly before an argument could break out.

“This isn’t the time, you two. Let’s not start here,” he said loudly, shooting an apologetic glance at Bofur. The bartender just shrugged and smiled.

“I’ve heard worse, lad, even of Bard Bowman,” Bofur assured him, before turning sly, “Did you lot enjoy the show?”

Bilbo’s blush notched up to fire-engine-red. “It was…ah, interesting.”

“He means brilliant,” Merebo interrupted, “He couldn’t take his eyes off one of the dancers. I thought he’d keel over as soon as he stood up!”

“Oh- _ho_ ,” Bofur chuckled, “That’s what we like to hear. Kili, sounds like you’ll have a tough act to follow!”

“I always do when Dori’s shift is right before mine,” grumbled Kili, even as three pairs of eyes turned to him in surprise.

“ _You’re_ a dancer?” squawked Bilbo, “A _stripping_ one?”

“As opposed to a ballet one?” asked Kili, but he was laughing, “Yes, I work here.”

“Of course you do,” Merebo murmured, staring at Kili as if he had just discovered the Holy Grail.

“So which dancer was it?” Kili looked curiously at Bilbo, who now wondered why his face had not burst into flames.

“Um, _aah_ ,” he said, clearing his throat, “He had…a white top and, er, a ponytail? A brown ponytail.”

“And he was moody,” Lobelia added, “He looked angry the whole time but it totally worked. _That_ guy.”

Kili’s eyes had grown very wide, his face slack as though with shock. There was a brief, motionless pause (except in the case of Merebo, who was surreptitiously trying to worm his way next to Kili).

“That’s _Thorin_ ,” Bofur said in a choked voice, as though he were forcing himself not to cry. Or laugh.

“Thorin,” Bilbo repeated. It was not the name Bilbo had expected—admittedly he had been expecting a name like Jack Hammer—but it felt right somehow. It was a gruff, masculine name, and suited his dancer just fine.

“There’s a certain charm to him,” Bofur continued, still slightly strangled, “that I guess is quite sexy, eh, Kili?”

“NO,” squawked Kili, looking at Bofur as though he had betrayed him, “NO, I— _BOFUR_.”

Now Bofur’s control broke, and he had to bend over to cope with the racking force of his cackles. Kili glowered down at him, and Bilbo thought that his frown reminded him rather a lot of the dancer’s—Thorin’s—brooding face. Merebo and Lobelia just gaped at them.

“Did I miss something?” Merebo asked at length, once Bofur’s guffawing had trailed off into giggles. Kili pursed his lips and glanced at Merebo with a dark expression.

“Thorin is my uncle,” he replied in a dry tone, “and Bofur finds it amusing that he’s so…popular.”

“ _Really_?” Bilbo squawked, eyes widening. Two strippers related? And another one had a brother working behind the bar, didn’t he? When did exotic dancing become a family business? Kili’s head jerked in a nod and, next to Bilbo, Lobelia smirked.

“That’s some Freudian shit right there!” she declared, “So, Kili, was it? Has your uncle always been a devil on the dancing pole?”

Kili did not blush in degrees of colour, as one might expect; instead, he skipped pink and went straight for hotter-than-hellfire red, outdoing even bashful Bilbo in those stakes. This was more than Lobelia and a just-recovered Bofur could take and they fell apart, flopping over the bar top and practically holding onto one another as they roared with laughter. If possible, Kili just looked more annoyed. Bilbo glanced at him and felt regret stir in his gut. It was, after all, technically his fault.

“Ignore them,” he said, reaching across Merebo and over Lobelia’s heaving back to pat his shoulder, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. There’s nothing _wrong_ with family members being in the same profession, even if…er…”

“It involves stripping?” Kili filled in, but Bilbo had felt him relax under his palm and smiled briefly at him. Not to be forgotten, Merebo weaselled a bit closer to Kili.

“And, you know, if you fancy comfort—”

“MEREBO, STOP.”

“What? I was just gonna buy him a drink—”

“MEREBO BAD.”

That was when a heavy hand landed on Bilbo’s shoulder. Another one, large and pale with a thick silver ring on the index finger, fell onto Merebo’s a split second before a man’s head poked between theirs.

“Did I hear ‘bad’?  That’s one of my favourite words!”

Bilbo heard—but could not see through the curtain of blonde hair that now draped before his eyes—Kili cackle and shout a delighted, “ _Fili_ , stop harassing customers!”

“Rude,” came the reply, before the hand patted again and then withdrew, followed by the head. Bilbo could now see that he had been accosted by a fair, smiling man, with a braided moustache to match his hair and twinkling blue eyes. He moved around them to stand behind Kili, looping one arm around his neck to tug him back against his chest, and propped his chin on his shoulder.

“Every stranger is a friend you haven’t made yet, that’s what Uncle Frerin says,” he chirped. Kili rolled his eyes and nudged an elbow back against the newcomer’s belly.

“He only says that when he’s wasted,” Kili retorted before grinning at Bilbo, “This is my brother Fili! Fili, this is, ah…?”

“Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo quickly supplied.

“And Merebo!” added Merebo.

“Bilbo Baggins and Merebo,” Kili repeated, “here for the show. Bilbo _especially_ appreciated Thorin’s moves.”

Bilbo could feel another blush rising as Fili pulled an exaggerated face of disgust, “ _That_ oldtimer?”

“Our uncle, Fili,” Kili said teasingly.

“Exactly. I remember him building Lego with me and shouting at Scrabble, can’t exactly imagine him workin’ the pole all that well—”

“Fili, ew!”

“Oh, I forgot!” Fili laughed and pulled back to slap his hands over Kili’s ears, “Must protect the baby brother’s innocence!”

“Innocence, as _if_ —” Kili scoffed and yanked Fili’s hands away, pulling them instead to clasp around his waist. Bilbo could practically hear Merebo raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, yeah,” Fili said, “Well, Bilbo, just you wait til I’m up there. I’ll show you a thing or two?”

“Oh, y-you’re in the business too?” Bilbo stammered. Merebo was vibrating beside him; Bilbo had to grab his wrist in warning.

“Yup! Overachievers, we are!” Fili grinned, and the dimples around his mouth deepened. Then he happened to look down and see Bofur and Lobelia, still slumped together and chuckling weakly. “Er. What did I miss?”

“Thorin,” Bofur rasped, sitting up and righting his hat, “Kili. Blushing. _Sexy_ _devil_.”

“Forget I asked,” Fili said, and turned back to Bilbo, “So our shift isn’t for another half-an-hour. Anyone fancy a drink?”

Kili’s eyes lit up and he twisted in Fili’s arms, “You brought money?”

“Duh,” Fili replied, hands now settled on Kili’s hips, “I’m gonna stop off on the way home for groceries at that all-night place. I could spare a few quid for some rum-and-cokes…?”

“I love you,” Kili declared and then turned to look smugly at Bofur, “Say, Bof. Some rum-and-cokes?”

“Cheeky bastard,” Bofur muttered but he was grinning as he straightened up to oblige. Lobelia sat up as well, wiping tears away from her eyes, and swivelled her seat to face Bilbo.

“I need the bathroom,” she said, “and as we have no other girls around, you guys will have to do. Let’s go.”

“What, _both_ of us?” Merebo cried, with a yearning look at the brothers now propped against the bar, “Why don’t I stay here and—”

“ _No_ ,” Lobelia and Bilbo said as one. Merebo opened his mouth again but, in the end, was dragged away. As he and Bilbo loitered outside the ladies’ bathroom, where the music was only a throbbing bass Bilbo could feel in the soles of his shoes, Merebo would not stop tossing plaintive looks his way. Finally, Bilbo got bored of it.

“You didn’t stand a chance, ‘Bo.”

“HOT STRIPPER BROTHERS.”

“Merebo, come on—”

“AND DID YOU SEE THEM? THEY SO WOULD’VE BEEN UP FOR A THREESOME TOGETHER.”

“You’re _sick_.”

“No, Bilbo, I’m open-minded.”

* * *

 

It was a little later that the night took an unexpected turn. Not that the whole night had not been a bit startling, but the _very_ surprising part had not yet happened yet. It happened about half-an-hour later on the dancefloor.

Having decided to take a break from the pole stage—and all secretly too afraid to take on the giant tattooed bodyguard again—the three had moved onto the bustling dancefloor and were now immersed in the fringes of it, crowded by enthusiastically writhing dancers and endearingly stumbling drunkards. Clubs having never been his scene, Bilbo took a while to grow comfortable even as Merebo flailed without a care and Lobelia threw out some truly impressive moves. Both stuck close to him, however, and before long he could feel himself relaxing, could hear the music pound through the air and floor and into his bloodstream, moved more freely, felt the beat of his heart and—

He happened to throw his head to the side and looked directly through a gaggle of heads to see the bar. Quite clearly, he saw Bofur, head bowed as he spoke to someone leaning against the counter, someone of whom Bilbo could only see a flowing tangle of black hair in the flickering lights.

Then the man turned and—it was probably only his imagination—Bilbo fancied he caught his dancer’s eyes.

Earth came crashing back swiftly and he ducked his head with a gasp. There was no way—just a coincidence, he was seeing things, as if his dancer could see him from here. And even if he _could_ , why should Bilbo care? People looked at things all the time, it was one of the downsides of having eyes, why should it—

“BILBO!”

Lobelia’s yell, close to his ear, dragged him back to his surroundings. Bilbo glanced at Lobelia, hand raised in preparation to make some gesture signalling that he was alright—but Lobelia was not looking at him. Her eyes were locked over his shoulder and she nodded pointedly at something behind them.

Bilbo knew who it would be before he even turned around. His dancer was making his way through the crowd—with his height and bulk, the crowd was parting like the Red Sea for him—but it got harder to deny as he got closer that he was looking in their direction. _At me_ , Bilbo thought suddenly, wistfully, but he tried to shake it off. His second attempt to make a sign to Lobelia was rebuffed, however, as Lobelia shoved his shoulder and nodded again.

The dancer had stopped just behind them. When Bilbo turned to him, he did not smile but his eyes—up close they were pale, glinting blues and greens and yellows in the flashes of light—were soft, almost inviting Bilbo to step closer. Bilbo was grateful for the loud music then, for surely there was no way that his dancer could hear Bilbo’s surprised squeak over it. The dancer merely inclined his head and held out his arm, hand open and outstretched.

 _He wants to DANCE_ , Bilbo realised. His heart was thumping now—or it had stopped altogether, he was not sure. But death was not going to be enough to stop Bilbo from grabbing the man’s hand and hastily nodding, accepting his offer. It might have been a trick of the light, but Bilbo thought for a moment he saw his stoic dancer smile.

* * *

 

There were parallels to be drawn between the fable of Cinderella and the account of Bilbo’s night out. A protagonist stuck in an unfulfilling life; a fairy godmother (and Merebo would undoubtedly laugh his arse off to be referred to as such, declaring it the most fitting title ever); a handsome stranger; an unlikely meeting and maybe a happy ever after…

That, however, was where the tales differed. Cinderella’s happy ever after was a wedding, a castle and a trip into the sunset in her prince’s carriage. Bilbo’s…well.

Bilbo’s was not. Bilbo’s involved a freezing night in London, a rough brick wall, and a very fervent stripper.

“Bilbo,” he had gasped when his dancer had first pulled him out of the club and into the adjacent alley, hands tight on his shoulders as he pushed him against the wall, “Just in case the need for a name should arise.”

The dancer had grinned and leant closer to him, close enough that Bilbo could feel his hot breath on his lips, the wolfish glint of his teeth in the dim streetlamps. His hair fell over his shoulder, loose and tangled, and Bilbo let his eyes drift from the cut of it against his collarbone to the long, pale column of his neck, up over his bearded chin and back to the glare of his gaze. He could see now that his eyes were blue, bluer than the sky. “And _should_ the need arise?”

“Well, you never know. In this day and age, with, er, the rise of social media and what not—”

Fuck, what was he _saying_? Luckily, the dancer saw he was floundering and cut him off with nothing more than a momentary, fleeting, _wonderful_ touch of his mouth to Bilbo’s. That shut him up very well.

“My name is Thorin,” the dancer said, and Bilbo had to repress the urge to say _I know. I know because I saw you dance, I couldn’t take my eyes off you, you’re beautiful, why are you out here with me—_

He did not have to repress for too long, nor did he have to talk anymore, because Thorin was quite happy to kiss him again, searchingly and with more purpose now. His stubble was rough, pleasantly so, against Bilbo’s chin, his lips hot against Bilbo’s and pliant when Bilbo hesitantly pressed his tongue to the seam of them. Thorin’s hands cupped his head, tilting it just so, and the kiss deepened, mouths opening willingly and bodies pressing together eagerly. All Bilbo could think was _closer_. His hands gripped Thorin’s hips, tight enough that he felt Thorin’s breath hitch, and then crept up his back to clutch him, tug him nearer, before sliding down the expanse of his spine again.

And Thorin felt _amazing_. He was as solid and as rugged as he looked, kissed with the teasing determination his dance had promised. When Bilbo scraped his teeth against his bottom lip, fingers twining at the same time in the ends of his long hair, Thorin moaned aloud against his mouth and pressed him back into the wall, hips slotting against Bilbo’s with ease. Bilbo had to pull away to take a few very deep breaths at that (because _God_ it was so perfect, so tempting, the idea of rocking back against Thorin, having it on here in some alley right next to a street in the middle of the night, finding their ends together hands clasping lips kissing messy and brilliant and way better than Cinderella’s story fuck that) and Thorin was not idle, ducking his head to set his mouth against Bilbo’s neck.

“I saw you, you know.”

The words were a low rumble that Bilbo felt against his throat rather than heard.

“O-oh?” he managed, fingers skimming Thorin’s back as he tried to distract himself from the kissing— _FUCK_ ,the _beard_!

“By the stage. You were in the audience,” Thorin’s lips travelled up, kissing Bilbo’s thudding pulse point, “You were watching me.”

At that, his teeth made an appearance, nipping just below Bilbo’s jawline, and Bilbo could not help himself. His hips jerked forwards and he felt Thorin stiffen, release a heavy breath against his neck.

“Do you,” Bilbo stuttered, digging his fingers into Thorin’s shoulders, “d-do you do this with _every_ guy in your audience?”

In retrospect, this could have been a very bad thing to say. Bilbo would be relieved later that Thorin found it funny rather than insulting. His laugh was a huff of air on Bilbo’s neck before his lips turned to kissing again.

“Only the ones Bofur approves of,” he quipped. He lifted his head just a little, turning his lips very close to Bilbo’s ear, “Only the ones I like the look of.”

“You like me?” Bilbo asked, voice mercifully even. His fingers flexed against Thorin’s shoulders. Thorin moved his head, leaning his forehead against Bilbo’s so that their eyes were level.

“Yes,” he said, “I do. And it takes a lot for me to like a man so quickly.”

“Like at first sight,” Bilbo sighed, and grinned when Thorin arched an eyebrow at him, “I’m flattered, really.”

“Would you be more flattered if I kissed you again?” Thorin rumbled, a hint of a sly smile plucking at the corners of his mouth. Bilbo shuddered and bolstered all the courage he had.

“How far away is your place?”

Thorin’s eyes darkened. Bilbo could feel himself begin to tremble, as if in fear. Had he upset Thorin? Was it anger that now cast a shadow in him? Had he ruined his chance?

No, he hadn’t. Before Bilbo could truly begin to panic, Thorin stamped a bruising kiss to his lips, hard enough to leave him shaking with something that was definitely _not_ fear. Thorin’s voice, when next he spoke, was harsh and low.

“I can one-up you,” he hissed, “For the night-shift dancers, the club had a room up by the dressing stalls. It’s soundproof. With _beds_.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, because any other coherent thoughts had scattered from his mind to make room for decidedly unsavoury ones, “Well. Sounds ideal.”

Now Thorin grinned, slow and feral, and Bilbo wanted him so badly it _hurt_. When he pulled away from Bilbo, the cold was nearly unbearable. He had not released his hand though. That was some comfort.

“I thought I’d shock you when I mentioned it,” Thorin said, “Offend your sensibilities. I don’t think I’ve ever been so wrong in my life.”

“That’s the impression I like to give,” Bilbo said wryly, and Thorin was still smiling as he led Bilbo out of the alley and back towards Durin’s Bane.

* * *

 

Trust Merebo to fuck it all up. Bilbo took back everything nice he had ever said about him. Merebo _sucked_.

For no sooner had Bilbo got Thorin alone in the night dancers’ room—no sooner had Thorin kissed him again, slow and teasing and _promising_ , enough that Bilbo dared think that he might go further with this gorgeous man, he might get into bed with him, he might, he might, he might—than the door promptly burst open again and a dishevelled Merebo staggered in on the arm of the half-deaf doorman.

“Bilbo!” Merebo squawked, though it took a moment for his glazed eyes to focus on Bilbo properly, “Wha’ are _you_ doin’ in the attic with Hot Grumpypants?”

Bilbo would never forgive him for this.

“Sorry, Thorin,” the doorman said gruffly as he dragged Merebo to one of the beds, “This fellow took a turn for the worse downstairs. I thought he ought to lie down until a cab gets here.”

With that, he dropped Merebo onto the bed—“Wait, don’t leave me! I love you, Gladys!”—and strode out again without another word, as though he had not even noticed that his colleague was in only his trousers, or that he had his arms around a wide-eyed, similarly indecent man. After the door slammed shut, there was a moment of stunned silence before Bilbo and Thorin turned back to face one another.

“That was Oin,” Thorin said and, if he had been anyone else, Bilbo would have thought that he sounded _sheepish_ , “He’s…hard of hearing.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo lamely, “Well, that’s Merebo. He’s…awful.”

“That isn’t polite.”

“I’m not feeling polite.”

Thorin laughed at this before stepping out of Bilbo’s embrace. The spell was well and truly broken now. Bilbo deflated to think of it. _Should’ve known better_ , he thought as Thorin plucked his shirt up from the ground and Merebo’s snores ground on in the background. _And now it’s all over and I’ll have nothing to show for it. Even Merebo’s too drunk to remember it._

When redressed, Thorin stooped again to pick up Bilbo’s shirt, tatty and limp in the sickly white light of the on-call-stripper room (as Bilbo imagined it would be called). Bilbo all but snatched it from his grasp, spinning away from him quickly so as to pull it on and hide his face. Only ten minutes ago he had felt so wonderful and confident, as if Thorin could really want him. Now Bilbo only felt embarrassed and a bit awkward.

“I should stay with my friend,” he mumbled, “and make sure that he’s alright. That he doesn’t choke on vomit or something.” _Or that he does_.

“Of course,” Thorin said behind him, voice smooth and deep and life really really _really_ isn’t fair, “I’ll ask Oin and Dwalin to tell you when the taxi arrives.”

“Thanks,” Bilbo stammered. He twisted back around but could not bring himself to meet Thorin’s eyes as he coughed out, “You—you have a good rest of the night.”

There was a pause.

“No problem,” said Thorin, and then there was a clomp of boots, a squeak of door hinges, and his perfect dancer was gone and Bilbo was alone.

Well, not alone.

“ _Bilboooooooooo._ ”

Bilbo sighed.

“Bilbo,” Merebo whined again. One arm, which had been dangling off the side of the bed, flapped about uselessly, as if seeking Bilbo out. “Bilbo, come sit with me. Talk to me about hot stripper brothers. My dreams of hot stripper threesomes have been crushed. And I might throw up.”

“Coming, Merebo,” Bilbo said through gritted teeth. Nonetheless, he was a good fucking person and he went to perch on the bed next to Merebo, leaning towards his friend’s grey face. “You need a bucket?”

“I think—I think—” Merebo forced his hands under himself, pushed himself up and look decidedly unsteady for a moment. Bilbo was beginning to fear that he _was_ about to throw up when Merebo’s shoulders dropped and he opened his mouth to let out the loudest burp Bilbo had heard since childhood.

“Charming,” he grumbled. He could have been fucking a very attractive exotic dancer right now. Merebo sucked _so much_.

“Better,” Merebo chirped but slumped back onto the bed anyway, “Did I scare away Grumpypants?”

“His name was Thorin, Merebo.”

“He was hot as _fuck_. I’m sorry, Bil,” Merebo’s hand flopped out again, this time to grab Bilbo’s hand tightly. “You’re an awesome friend, Bilbo. Way better than fuckin’ Lobelia. You know she vanished off with that Tauriel chick earlier? She’s probably havin’ an orgasm right now as I lie on my deathbed.”

“You aren’t on your deathbed, Mer,” Bilbo said flatly. He could not deny, however, that his heart was warming back up to Merebo just the tiniest bit.

“Well, it feels like it,” huffed Merebo.

“Trust me, it’ll feel _worse_ tomorrow,” Bilbo said and smirked when Merebo yowled into the pillow at the thought, “You’ll live. You manage it every Saturday.”

“True that,” Merebo muttered, “You’ll take care of me, right?”

Bilbo contemplated this. Then he contemplated the way Thorin had pushed him against the alley wall, the curve of his smile, the warmth of his mouth when he kissed him.

“No.”

“Thorin was _really_ hot, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, Merebo.”

“I suck.”

* * *

 

At six a.m. on a Friday of weak sunlight, the previous night seemed like a dream to Bilbo. Or, at least, it did until he wondered into his living room and found Merebo sprawled on his sofa, feet somehow kicked over the back of it so that he was upside down, sandy head dangling above the floor. How the likes of Merebo Proudfoot evolved beyond the blobfish stage, Bilbo thought uncharitably as he shook Merebo awake, he would never know.

“The British are coming,” Merebo moaned as he tried to wriggle out of Bilbo’s reach, only to nearly crack his head open when he inevitably fell off the sofa. He immediately scrambled upright, squawking, “ALERT WASHINGTON. WHERE AM I.”

“You’re in my flat,” Bilbo said, holding out a hand to help him up, “You’re hungover. And you _are_ British.”

“Not if the referendum goes my way,” Merebo said with a grin, “and, joy of joys, I’m not feeling that bad! Maybe my alcohol levels finally exceed my blood levels! What time is it?”

“Time for work,” Bilbo replied, “It’s half past six.”

“ _In the morning_?” squeaked Merebo, and abruptly his face went very, very pale, “I’ve changed my mind. I’ve never felt so terrible. I might die. I might collapse on the street and die and infect the population of London with my deadness. _28 Days Later_ will happen—”

“You want to sleep in my flat, don’t you.”

“Your pillows are so soft, Bilbo.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes in exasperation. Being friends with Merebo was honestly not worth it, not even when he beamed at you for letting him sleep in your bed, smacked a kiss on your cheek and declared that he _loved_ you, Bagsy.

“Don’t you mean Gladys?” Bilbo asked with a wry smile. Merebo stared at him.

“Who the fuck is _Gladys_?”

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully. Bilbo was on till duty today and the bookshop was quiet as the grave so, subsequently, Bilbo spent several hours slouched behind the desk, hitting random buttons on the register and pondering what would happen if Merebo really _could_ release some sort of hangover virus on the city. At noon, just as Bilbo was trying to make the register buttons play the tune of _When the Saints Come Marching In_ and deciding how best to commit suicide when you were infected with a hangover, the front door to Book End swung open and the bell rang cheerfully.

“Can I help you?” Bilbo called out automatically, not even caring to lift his head from his very important musical composition. On his first days here, he had hopped like an eager bunny towards every new customer, but he had quickly learnt that most of them did not immediately _want_ help, would prefer to slope off into the dark corners of the shop alone first. No human interaction until absolutely necessary, that was what Bilbo was taught.

So it was a complete surprise to him when the newcomer said, “Hello!”

Bilbo’s head snapped up. It took him a moment—in the light of day, he thought it was a schoolboy, only it was twelve o’clock on a weekday so all the schoolboys would be in school, wouldn’t they?—to place the shyly smiling boy before him. _Not a boy_ , he realised, _the bowlcut just makes him look young—OH._

“Weren’t you at Durin’s Bane last night?” the man continued, reaching up to unwind his knitted scarf as he edged closer to the desk, “You didn’t know what _Arkenstone_ was.”

“Ah, yep,” Bilbo said and he blushed so hard that his whole head felt like it was on fire, “And you…” he trailed off as he thought back to last night—Ori, his name had been, and he had been embarrassed when Bofur was talking about his—“you’re Dori’s brother?”

Ori promptly went scarlet, “Um. Yes. You’re acquainted then.”

“I only saw the start of his act,” Bilbo said quickly, “He was…good.”

“Yes,” Ori said with a smile, “But Oakenshield said you only saw his dance.”

“Oakenshield?”

“Oh, I mean Thorin.”

 _Thorin_. Immediately, the memories that Bilbo had refused to dwell on fired through his head, too bright and intense to focus on just one of _mouths hands smiles clothes boots alone_. If possible, Bilbo flushed more. He must have looked like a traffic light by now.

“Did you enjoy it?” Ori asked, apparently oblivious to the fact that Bilbo was fighting not to die of humiliation or get hard behind his desk, “Last night?”

Somehow, Bilbo drew up the strength to nod. “Was great,” he ground out, “Really great. Did you need a book?”

“Oh, yes!” Ori cried and, just like that, he was not blushing or shy anymore. With bright eyes he sprang up to the desk, “Do you have volume V to Z of Istari’s Encyclopaedia?”

Bilbo took a moment to think. This he could focus on, this he knew and could think of nothing else but. “I can’t place it off the top of my head but it should be in our World or Knowledge section. Come with me.”

Bilbo slid off his stool and around his desk and Ori followed close behind, as enthusiastic as Bilbo had been.

“I only need this volume,” he added in the Knowledge section, as Bilbo dug out a stepladder, “I have all the others. I’ve been collecting them since I was thirteen!”

“Collecting encyclopaedias?” Bilbo asked incredulously, before it occurred to him that that was probably a very rude thing to say. Ori did not seem to notice or care, luckily.

“I like reading,” he chirped, “and encyclopaedias can tell you _everything_! My brothers got me the first ones for birthdays and Christmases—we couldn’t afford to buy them all at once,” he added hastily and Bilbo suddenly felt even ruder, “but Dori would scrape together what he could and I think getting the money for volume M to Q got Nori arrested—”

“ _What_?” Bilbo blurted just as volume V to Z of Istari’s Encyclopaedia fell flat with a slap on the shelf before him.

“—but this is my first paycheck from the club and Dori said I should buy the last one myself!” Ori said proudly. Bilbo twisted around to offer him the book and could not deny that the way Ori’s eyes lit up was a bit heartwarming. “You _do_ have it!”

“Book End has everything if you look hard enough,” Bilbo said with a wry smile as the book was all but snatched from his hand by a delighted young man. “Shall I ring it up for you?”

“Yes please!”

It was as Bilbo accepted a twenty pound note and duly handed over the bagged encyclopaedia that Ori’s eyes took on a strange glint.

“I’ll tell all my friends about this place,” he blurted out and Bilbo blinked, “It’s a _great_ shop!”

“…thank you…?”

“You know,” Ori said, just a bit slyly, “Thorin really likes history books.”

Oh no.

“But he can never find anything. He’ll probably need tonnes of help.”

Oh _no_.

“And he couldn’t stop talking about you this morning, Mr. Bilbo.”

OH NO.

“That’s nice,” Bilbo squeaked and averted his gaze to the cash register. Suddenly, he remembered that he had records to take, stocks to count, things to do. “Well, thank you for shopping at Book End! We hope to see you again soon.”

“Thank you!” Ori beamed, “I’d love to see you again too! Why don’t you come back to Durin’s Bane tonight? I’m on the bar again, and Thorin—”

With a bolt of panic, Bilbo could not help but interrupt, “I couldn’t! I—I’m afraid I’m busy tonight. As I am now. Anyway, I’m sure you have _proper_ customers to concern yourselves with.”

Ori just shrugged, undeterred, “Bring that friend of yours, with the brown hair and the wandering hands. He’ll buy us out of booze and you can hang out!”

“Ori, I really—”

“Thorin would _really_ like to see you again,” Ori said with an earnestness he had not possessed before, “He doesn’t warm up to people easily, you know. That’s what Dori says, at least. When he meets someone he really likes…well, it doesn’t happen a lot. And he likes you a lot!”

“I’m _sure_ that’s not true.”

The moment he said, he wished he could take it back. Blushing, Bilbo ducked his head again. The cash register really was very interesting. He wondered if he ought to double-check the notes. His boss, Mr. Radagast, occasionally forgot to store notes or coins and just put them in one of his pockets. It always drove the accountant Mr. Saruman mad.

Ori was still standing in front of the desk. Bilbo did not dare chance so much as a look.

“He really does,” Ori said softly, “He’s not the type to pretend he likes people when he doesn’t. He said it’s a time-waste when he could be with people he wants to hang out with. Like one time Balin, he’s like one of our investors, he took Thorin to meet with the owner of this other club, a man called Thranduil, and Thorin almost—”

At that point, the bell jangled loudly as the door swung open.

“Are you ready to hear about some _serious_ sexcapades, Baggins?” Lobelia trilled as she strode in, before pulling up short, “Holy shit, you have a customer?!”

“Sorry about that,” Bilbo said to Ori, all the while glowering over his shoulder at Lobelia, who did not even have the grace to attempt looking apologetic, “I really am busy, Ori, so—”

“Say you’ll come tonight!” Ori begged.

“Come where?” Lobelia asked.

“Nowhere,” Bilbo said, but Ori had already turned to answer, “Durin’s Bane!”

“Again?” Lobelia said, “It would be a miracle if Boring Baggins went out clubbing twice a _year_ , let alone twice in two days.”

“Don’t call me that,” Bilbo protested.

“Not to club!” Ori said, “To see Thorin!”

“Hot Grumpypants?” asked Lobelia.

“Is that an _official_ nickname?” Bilbo squeaked.

“Thorin’s smitten and Bilbo said he wouldn’t come back to see him but Nori said if I was coming to get a book, I might as well come here to find Bilbo—”

“Wait, how did you know I work here?!”

“Oh, Nori knows everything!—he said I might as well come here and talk to Bilbo. Nori’s ever so clever and he reckons Thorin needs something up his arse other than a giant stick—”

“OH MY GOD.”

“Oh my,” said Lobelia.

“So say you’ll come,” Ori pled again, spinning back around to Bilbo, “We all think Thorin would love to see you again.”

Bilbo said nothing for a long moment—mostly because any blood that might have been in his brain had sped down to fuel his blush. He was probably luminescent at this point.

“He’ll come!” Lobelia declared.

“I’ll _what_?”

“Really?” asked Ori, glancing hopefully at Lobelia. Lobelia merely levelled her gaze at Bilbo, an eyebrow raised knowingly. Ori’s imploring eyes soon followed suit.

Bilbo groaned.

“Alright, but I’m not paying entrance.”

Ori lit up, “Oh, good! I’ll see you tonight, Bilbo!”

Before another word could be said, Ori had scooped up his plastic bag and dashed out of the shop, blurring past the front window and out of sight. For a moment, Lobelia and Bilbo stood in startled silence. Then Bilbo, regaining his faculties, rounded on his friend.

“Why did you say I’d go?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ you?” Lobelia demanded, “I know you didn’t get to shag the hot stripper, cos I saw the state ‘Bo was in. I knew you’d take care of him, even if you had to give up Grumpypants. You’re too much of a goody two-shoes for your own good.”

“That isn’t your business!” Bilbo flared, “What I do—don’t do—don’t _shag_ —is up to me! I told him I didn’t want to go back to the club—”

“Why?”

“Because—because—well, _because_! I don’t have to explain yourself!”

Lobelia scoffed and planted her hands on her hips, “What, not even to your friend? I am your friend, last I checked!”

“Well, you aren’t a very _good_ one!”

There was an abrupt silence.

“Lobelia,” Bilbo said. His voice sounded weak all of a sudden. Lobelia did nothing but blink at him for a long moment, mouth slightly slack. In other circumstances, Bilbo might have delighted in having caught her out. “Lobelia?”

Then Lobelia snapped back to herself. Her very _angry_ self, if the flash of her eyes and the tight press of her lips was any indication.

“Fine then,” Lobelia said, and her voice was ice-cold, “Don’t explain anything. Go to the club, don’t go; fuck the dancer, don’t fuck the dancer; I’ll keep the fuck out of it. I won’t give a _shit_. See you later, Bilbo.”

“Lobelia, wait!” Bilbo moaned just as Lobelia made to turn on her heel, “I’m sorry, ‘Lia. Please don’t go, please! You are a good friend, I just—”

“You just said I wasn’t!” snarled Lobelia, “You better make up your mind, Bagsy. People like me and Grumpypants won’t wait forever.”

Now an answering rage swelled in Bilbo’s breast. Before he could stop himself: “What, like you didn’t wait last night?”

Lobelia gave a sharp bark of laughter, “ _That’s_ what this is about? You’re mad I hooked up while you were stuck with Merebo? You blame me for not getting laid last night?”

“I _always_ take care of Merebo!” Bilbo cried, “Ever since we were kids, I’ve looked out for him—both of you! I had to be the voice of reason when you wouldn’t stop fighting! I had to get in the way while you guys did whatever you want. If it weren’t for me, Merebo would have been arrested after Heathrow! I’ve always taken care of you and all I get for it is ‘Boring Baggins this’, ‘Old Man Bagsy that’! Last night, for the first time, I felt brave enough to _deserve_ someone like Thorin wanting me, but I had to be Boring Baggins again so that you could fuck your barmaid and Merebo would get home safe after drinking himself blind _again_ and now—now, when I’m petrified, when _I_ need _you_ , you tell me I’m ‘too much of a goody-two-shoes’! Well, _fuck_ you, Lobelia! I don’t owe you or Merebo shit! I definitely don’t owe you _any_ say in who I want to fall for, understood? Piss off if you want, be angry if you want. I’ll care, I’ll _always_ fucking care, but I won’t stop you.”

Bilbo let himself grind to a stop, breathing heavily. Lobelia glowered at him from across the room. It was startlingly easy to imagine her turning around and leaving the store, vanishing out of sight as easily as Ori had.

How they went from facing off from opposite sides of the store to flying into one another’s arms, Bilbo was not one hundred percent sure.

“I’m _sorry_ , Bilbo!” Lobelia sobbed into his neck, “I’m a bitch, I’m such a bitch—”

“No, you’re my best friend—”

“I love you so much, I never thought you were boring—”

“I wouldn’t trade our friendship for anything—”

“I’m so fucking hungover—”

“Me too, we’re just tired and hungover and—”

“I just want you to fuck the dancer!

“ _So do I!_ ”

That was how Mr. Radagast found them: red-eyed, hugging furiously, but smiling, and both resolved that they would return to Durin’s Bane that night.

When Merebo found out, he was devastated.

“What do you _mean_ , I’m not coming?!”

“You’ll slow him down,” Lobelia said matter-of-factly as she looked over Bilbo’s wardrobe, “This isn’t a night out, Mer, this is Bilbo potentially getting a boyfriend.”

“Who wants one of those?” Merebo exclaimed, and twisted around to Bilbo with wide imploring eyes, “Bilbo, I thought the D you wanted was the _dick_ , not the _date_!”

“I don’t know yet,” Bilbo said, gnawing on his thumbnail, “I just…want to see Thorin again. And Ori said he wanted to see me too, so.”

“Who the fuck is _Ori_?”

“I’ve told you, literally, four times,” Lobelia said, reaching out to pluck at a shirt sleeve, “I won’t do it again. Bilbo, have you been shopping _at all_ since 2006?”

“Alright,” Merebo said, “Get with Grumpypants, if that’s what you want. But why is Lobelia going with you? Why can’t I?”

“Too many cooks,” Lobelia said.

“I just thought you’d want to stay here,” Bilbo added feebly, “You can sleep here if you want. You can watch my TV. I have the _Lost_ boxset. I know you like that bloke who plays Charlie.”

“Plus you haven’t figured out what the island is yet,” Lobelia pointed out.

“Be that as it may,” huffed Merebo, “if my besties are going out, I’d like to go with. I’m feeling loads better, see?” he flashed a blinding smile, as if to prove his own healthiness, only to have it falter. “Wait. Unless I’m not welcome?”

“Yeah, you’re not welcome.”

“ _Lobelia!_ ”

“Bagsy,” Merebo peered up at Bilbo with those same wide eyes and said, quietly and hesitantly, “do you not _want_ me there?”

Bilbo faltered, “Well, it’s just…we’re not…Lobelia won’t even be with us, really, she wants to see Tauriel.”

“I want to see those hot brothers!” Merebo complained, before sobering up again, widening his eyes, speaking sweetly, “Bilbo, you’re like a brother to me, and brothers help brothers score with strippers. It’s the code. You know I wouldn’t get in the way. You know I’d do whatever it takes…but…” then he turned his head, hiding his face from Bilbo’s gaze, “if you don’t want me there, just say so.”

“Merebo,” sighed Bilbo, “ _Fine_. You can come.”

“YES!” Merebo leapt up with a punch to the air. Lobelia groaned.

“Goddammit, Baggins,” she griped, at which point Bilbo was struck with the sense that he had just been rather fabulously played. “Merebo, I swear, we are not fucking it up for Bilbo tonight, okay? He deserves whatever that dancer is storing in his grumpypants, and we will keep out of his way, am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Merebo sang as he dove for the bathroom, “Just let me sort out my hair!”

* * *

 

On a chilly Friday night, Bilbo found himself outside a strip club. Again.

_My life is a cosmic joke._

The line outside the entrance was even longer tonight, trailing almost to the street corner. Lobelia swiftly dragged Bilbo and Merebo to the front of the queue, however. She was determined to take no prisoners tonight, and quieted down any complaints those at the front of the line had with a cold glare. Bard the guard merely lifted an eyebrow.

“Are you on a guest list?” he asked in a monotone. In response, Lobelia shoved Bilbo forward.

“This is Bilbo Baggins,” she said, “He has to see Thorin Oakenshield ASAP.”

Now Bard turned his gaze to Bilbo, who waved a hand sheepishly. “Sorry. I can’t let you jump the queue just cos you’re groupies.”

“ _Groupies_ —?”

“We were invited here!” Lobelia protested, “By Ori, the little guy on the bar!”

Bard furrowed his brow for a moment. Then, abruptly, his eyes lit up with recognition, “Oh, you’re _Ori’s_ friends!”

“Ish,” said Bilbo, deciding that explaining the truth would take too long and sound too bizarre.

“Right, he mentioned you were coming round,” Bard said, and duly stepped aside, “He’s in _Ered Luin_ ; try not to cause too much of a ruckus. And _you_ ,” now he jabbed a finger at Merebo, who was attempting to sidle by, “Don’t you lay a hand on that boy. This is your only warning.”

“That’s rich, coming from Bard Blowjob,” Lobelia muttered under her breath, and Bilbo disguised his snort as a cough.

“I resent that implication, Bard,” Merebo huffed, “I enjoy life’s pleasures. I’m not out to corrupt the innocents and spook the townspeople.”

“Oh, Ori’s nowhere near innocent. But Dwalin sort of unofficially has dibs.”

“Oh.”

Inside the club, the air was thick, stifled by the mass of writhing bodies crammed within, and Bilbo almost immediately lost his friends. One minute his hand was clutched tight in Merebo’s, and he could feel Lobelia at his back; the next, his fingers were curling around nothing and he was pressed in tight by unfamiliar faces and the too-hot air until he felt like he could not breathe.

Shoving through the crowd proved ineffective; despite his struggles, Bilbo was jostled and knocked and swept away by the tide until his hip cracked against a hard edge and he found himself pushed against the bar. _Ow._ Rubbing his sore side, Bilbo lifted his head and found a baffled pair of eyes blinking at him. He had not yet encountered this bartender, an overweight man hiding his wide chin under a bright ginger beard. That was probably for the best, now that Bilbo thought about it. Thorin and his friends would have to wait. All Bilbo currently wanted was a strong drink and a moment’s peace.

“Can I get something with vodka in it?” he asked weakly. The man’s gaze softened, and he simply nodded.

“Right you are,” he said, and waddled out of view. Scarcely thirty seconds later, a glass filled to the brim with Coke and presumably alcohol slid towards him. The barman waved Bilbo off when he attempted to offer him any money, however.

“Friendly discount,” he replied when Bilbo looked puzzled, before smiling apologetically, “Ori mentioned you earlier. I hope the lad didn’t pester you too much. I’m Bombur, by the way.”

Bilbo just sighed. “I’m Bilbo, but I suspect you already knew that,” he muttered, and swigged his drink. It tasted vile. Bilbo imagined that Bombur had heeded his words, and added only a cursory drop of mixer into the vodka. He took another gulp.

Before him, Bombur had taken no offence. “Thorin’s in _Arkenstone_ at the moment, but he should take a break sometime soon. Does he know you’re coming? I expect not, if Ori’s behind it all. The lad’s a hopeless romantic. He’ll want the grand gestures and the streamers and the Celine Dion in the background. I dread to think what it’ll be like when Dwalin finally gets some stones and makes a move. If you need someone to smuggle you out of here, by the way, my brother and I could help you there.”

“Why would I need smuggling?” Bilbo asked.

Bombur shrugged, “I dunno. When the lads get ideas into their heads, they’re more stubborn than a bull and about as smart as one too. And they’ve been trying to set Thorin up for ages. That he actually met anyone he likes is nothing short of a miracle, I guess. But if you’re not interested, you shouldn’t feel like you—”

“I am interested!” Bilbo said quickly, “I am, really. I only…” he hesitated. He had been too nervous for dinner earlier, and the vodka had rushed straight to his head. Surely he did not really want to unburden himself on a stranger?

But Bombur had struck a bit of a nerve, and now he was patiently watching Bilbo, wondering if Bilbo wanted to escape—escape from the club, from the attentions of Thorinfor God’s sake!—and the words rattling about Bilbo’s mind would not settle for being swallowed.

“I only met Thorin last night,” Bilbo said, fiddling with the near-empty glass in his hand, “and the last twenty-four hours have been so…odd. This isn’t really my scene, so to speak, you see. I never go to clubs and I never do anything mad. My friends do enough of that for me. I thought I’d hate it here, but I didn’t. I loved it, really. It was the most absurd thing I’ve ever done, and I’m grateful for it. And I’m grateful I got to meet Thorin. I’m not the type to party and drink and kiss strippers, you see, I’m better at home with my flower pots and my books and all that. But…last night was…an adventure. One that was cut far too short. And I think I have a bit of a taste for it now. That and, apparently, vodka. And Thorin. If he’s up for it. So, yes, I am interested,” awkwardly, he cleared his throat, “Do you…do you see?”

Bombur smiled. Bilbo took that as a good sign.

“Yes, I see,” Bombur said gently, “You seem a good sort, Bilbo. Thorin’s lucky.”

“Thank y—”

“By the way, Thorin’s here. Behind you. Has been for a while. Sorry.”

 _Wait._ Bilbo blinked. _What?_ Bilbo whirled around.

Behind him, striking even in the midst of the heaving crowd, Thorin stood. Bilbo could not quite stop his jaw dropping.

“Oh—”

“Sorry again!” trilled Bombur, and then he was gone. Bilbo mentally added his name to the list of Thorin’s Friends He Intended To Kill. The list so far was one name long.

“Oh,” he said again, softer. Thorin had not moved from in front of him. “Hello, Thorin.”

“Hello,” Thorin said. He had a grey hoodie thrown on over his vest today, hood up over his hair, and wore blue jeans instead of leather. His hands were jammed into his back pockets. Even in such casual attire, Thorin would have looked gorgeous, save for the stoniness of his expression. The hood cast a shadow over his face, but Bilbo could see the low set of his brows, and the hard sheen of his eyes. 

“You’re back.”

“Yes, I—yes.”

“Hmmph.” Thorin shifted his weight onto one foot. Bilbo could see the people behind him grow restless, peering around the broad man at the bar. That was when he remembered that they were in public—in very loud, busy public, actually—and unthinkingly, he inched closer to Thorin, reached up to brush his elbow.

“We’re in the way. Can we—?”

“Yeah,” Thorin said, still impassive, “Follow me.”

Without pausing, Thorin turned and barged back into the crowd. People stepped aside swiftly to make way, and Bilbo hurried along in Thorin’s thunderous wake before the path could close again. He was beginning to regret that vodka-and-coke. He was beginning to regret coming.

Thorin had to have heard what he said.

Thorin must think he was a _freak_.

Bilbo was not led up to the on-call-stripper room (he really would have to ask what its proper title was). He was not led to the bathrooms or even out to the cloakroom. Thorin strode straight past this, past Bard, and onto the pavement outside. Bilbo tripped quickly after him, looking around like a deer in headlights. His blood pounded in his ears—or was that the music? The street seemed so quiet compared to the club; it was better for a private conversation, perhaps, but did Thorin really intend to yell at him and tell him never to come back in front of the waiting line of people, in front of the security guards, _everyone_? He scuttled down the street a little further, clinging to the wall of the building, before daring to glance at Thorin.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a hush, “I’m sorry, alright? I shouldn’t have come tonight.”

Thorin’s face did not change. “You left so abruptly last night. Didn’t think I’d see you for a long time.”

“I had to go!” Bilbo reminded him, “My friend was sick.”

“I remember,” now something in Thorin’s eyes flickered, and the corners of his mouth twitched down, “You told me to have a good rest of my night.”

“Yes, I did,” Bilbo said miserably, “and I didn’t mean to ruin this one. I only came because Ori—”

“Ori?” Thorin’s brow furrowed.

“Yes,” Bilbo sighed, “I would’ve called to make sure it was okay, but…well, I didn’t have your number. Obviously.”

“You didn’t need it,” Thorin said stonily, “You don’t need permission from me to do anything. We don’t even know each other.”

Bilbo swallowed hard at that. “No. We don’t. That’s why I came. Well, also because Ori wanted me to—and Lobelia as well, I suppose—alright, that’s _partly_ why I came, but also—”

“I remember this.”

Thorin’s quiet interruption took Bilbo by surprise, and he stuttered, “You—you—remember what?”

“This. You started rambling nonsense last night as well.”

Bilbo gaped at him. Thorin glared right back.

Then, quite inelegantly, Bilbo snorted. He almost immediately covered his mouth with his hand.

“Sorry! But I did, didn’t I?”

He chuckled again, helplessly, and finally—fucking _finally_ —Thorin smiled as well. Involuntarily, maybe, and undoubtedly out of confusion and probably amusement at this small, weird creature who stalked him here, but Bilbo counted it as a victory anyway.

“It’s an unfortunate habit,” Bilbo added weakly, and Thorin huffed a laugh himself.

“You’re a strange man,” he commented, “I can’t read you at all.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Depends.”

Now Thorin sobered up—not to the near-angry level of before, thankfully, but his eyes were guarded when they looked at Bilbo again.

“I just want to know,” he said, “Why did you come back?”

“To see you,” Bilbo admitted shyly, “To…see where we stood.”

“What ‘we’? We don’t know each other.”

“You said that. I know we don’t. We could, though, if you want to. Like I said to Bombur.”

“Like you—” Thorin blinked, and reached up to pull down his hood, better to see Bilbo. His hair was loose, today, and coiled over one shoulder as the hood dragged down. “What did you say to _Bombur_? Has everybody I know stuck their nose in?”

Bilbo frowned, “You were right behind me when I was talking to me!”

“Yes, but it’s _rush hour_ at a _nightclub_. I couldn’t hear anything over that music, Bilbo.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said—the ‘I should have known that’ went unspoken—but then his mind latched on. “Bilbo!”

Thorin’s scowl deepened. “ _What_?”

“You remembered my name!” Bilbo exclaimed. Despite himself, his heart rose hopefully.

Thorin just looked unimpressed. “Yes, well, you said yourself: the need for a name might arise.”

“I remembered yours too!”

“I should bloody think so. Apparently all and sundry tried to shove you at me tonight,” Thorin took a step away, fixing Bilbo with a cold look, “I don’t expect anything, you know. I imagine I’m not the first man you’ve ever got off with and you’re certainly not the first I have. Everyone wants to hook up with the stripper, don’t they? I’m a great punchline to tell your mates, aren’t I? At least you were polite about it, but don’t bother, yeah? Have a good rest of your night.”

At that, Thorin made to leave, to head back to the club entrance.

But Bilbo’s hand shot out, and wrapped tightly around his upper arm, and Thorin stopped. Bilbo did not even think twice about it. In that moment, his mind was no longer muddled and confused. It was all crystal clear.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he said.

Thorin arched an eyebrow, “Do I?”

“Yes, you do. I think I do, as well. We’ve been going about this the wrong way round,” Bilbo took a deep breath, “Cos I wasn’t messing around last night. I really wasn’t. And your—your line of work has nothing to do with this. Well, it does, but not in that way.”

“Is this you rambling again?” Thorin asked. Bilbo chuckled.

“Nope, ‘fraid not. My friend Lobelia said it herself earlier: too many cooks. We’re thinking too much, and our friends aren’t helping. I didn’t think you wanted to know last night, you see. I thought you’d seen me and rubbish drunk Merebo, and come to your senses, and remembered that people like you don’t kiss people like me.”

Frowning, Thorin asked, “What are people like you?”

“Wimps, mostly.”

“And people like me?”

“People who deserve to be more than punchlines.”

Thorin stared at him. Bilbo took his second deep breath, because his next words were a far bigger leap of faith than his last ones.

“I came back because I’d like to…ask you out. Properly. No jokes, no messing around, no being too scared to live. No clubs. And definitely no friends. Just us and…and coffee, or dinner, or whatever you’d like. Would you like that? Thorin?”

Thorin was still staring at him.

Bilbo was beginning to panic.

“You can say no, if you want,” he said hastily, “Of course, I mean, we did only meet yesterday, and we’ve already snogged, but I’m really not expect—I—please say something.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.” Thorin looked a bit surprised—maybe a bit panicky himself, and oddly that settled the storm in Bilbo’s gut somewhat—but his eyes were wide and unguarded, and his lips were beginning to curve into a smile, “Yes, I would like that.”

“Oh, thank God,” Bilbo said, “Would asking to kiss you be too much?”

“Definitely not.”

“Oh,  thank God,” Bilbo said again, and then cupped Thorin’s face and surged up to kiss him. He could feel Thorin’s grin against his mouth and slid it open with his tongue, fisting his hand in Thorin’s hair to drag him closer. In reply, Thorin wrapped his strong arms around his waist and nearly hauled Bilbo off his feet, smothering Bilbo’s yelp with another kiss, slower and more languid.

A few people in the queue to Durin’s Bane started to catcall. _Fuckers_ , Bilbo thought, and smiled against Thorin’s lips. Honestly. Couldn’t they see he was busy?


End file.
